My name is Ethan Tyrell.

At about 9.30 p.m. on December 22nd, 2005, I left work at the used bookstore I managed,

and drove ten miles back to the tiny house I was renting off a country road.

When I went up to the front door, I saw immediately that the knob had been broken.

Someone had kicked the door in.

When I got inside, I turned a light on to see if anything had been stolen.

There was a little bit of mud on the carpet and something that looked like bits of burned

paper, but no other visible evidence that someone had actually come inside after kicking

my door in.

As I was walking across the living room to the phone, I detected a faint smell that at

first I didn't recognize.

It was like the smell of apples mixed with a very sour oak-like odor that got stronger

as I stood there.

When I realized what the smell was, I backed away from the phone, turned, and ran back

out the front door.

My house was secluded at the end of a long wooded drive, and as I ran through the dark,

I was mortally aware of how close the woods were on either side of me.

I knew in my gut that something might very well come out at me from them, but I made it

on to the main road, and from there it was a short run to the closest gas station.

Deep in my wallet, I found a list of names and numbers, and it took me three calls to

track down Linus' plague.

He didn't answer the phone when I called.

...